Weekend at Vasey's II
by Elfrieda
Summary: An AU ridicfic set after episode 2x10 Walkabout and the events of Weekend at Vasey's I.
1. Chapter 1

A sequel to "Weekend at Vasey's"

AU ridicfic set after the events of 2x10 "Walkabout"

Credits: I don't own the rights to Robin Hood BBC, blah, blah. Also, thanks to everyone whose ideas I've probably stolen.

*arrow whooshing noise*

Location: Nottingham castle (we can also see this because it's the same CGI shot they always used on the show, so a caption is pretty much unnecessary at this point)

Marvin, the second-in-command to the Captain of the Nottingham city guard, was figuratively on top of the world. Well, technically, you could say he was also literally on top of the world, because apparently it's round like a ball (also a pet theory of Marvin's, who was a man ahead of his time) and . . . where were we? Oh, right. He felt good. He had only been working under Sir Guy of Gisborne for six months, but he had already proven himself to be much more capable than all of the other guards. Combined. Which, granted, was not saying much, but it was enough to get him promoted through the ranks quickly. Things were going his way.

That was about to change, however. Sir Guy had ordered him to interview applicants for a kitchen maid job. But Marvin felt optimistic. _How bad can they be? _he thought. Granted, the last three kitchen maids had been fired for attempting to rob Sir Guy of his virtue, but that meant nothing. Marvin was a man with good judgment, and surely there would have to be at least one wench among the applicants who would be suitable. Or at least, who would not attempt to force her heaving bosoms on his boss.

Yes, life was generally good. And, thanks to Lady Marian's socialist health care reform, he now had dental.

*arrow whooshing noise*

Location: a castle in Ireland or somewhere like that, no one cares

"Haaaaave you met Lord Dunghill?" asked a particularly smarmy courtier of Prince John, indicating the gangly, straw-haired youth next to him.

The ginger-who-would-be-king lethargically glanced up from his cup of wine, where he was attempting to admire his own reflection. "Who the devil is Lord Dunghill?" he slurred.

The smarmy courtier wrapped his arm around Lord Dunghill chummily. "This strapping young lad, my Lord."

Prince John glared stabby things at the smarmy courtier.

"," said the man, wilting a bit.

"Do you like cheese, Prince John?" piped in Lord Dunghill, a.k.a. Sir Phillip, breaking the tension. "I love it above all things!"

"Cheese?" murmured Prince John confusedly, as if the man had just declared his passion for syphilis.

"Why, yes! My family," beamed Sir Phillip, "owns the best dairy chickens this side of . . . of . . . wherever else they have good dairy chickens! Our cheese is simply exqui- . . . equis- . . . excris- . . . it's really yummy!"

The prince turned his eyes back to his glass. "Do go on," he muttered, not bothering to stifle a yawn.

Sarcasm would always be lost on Sir Phillip. "Well, we've got Edam and Cheddar and we even import Gruyere all the way from . . . oh, bother . . . "

"Never mind all that, my dear friend!" smarmed the smarmy courtier. "Why not tell . . . His Royal Highness . . . about that time you saved Nottingham from . . . what was it? . . . ninja pirates?"

"From what?" asked Phillip, clueless.

The man (smarmily) nudged his friend in his soft tummy. "_You_ know . . . like you were _just_ telling me. How you defeated Robin Hood and make King Richard look a fool, and all that?" The courtier winked and jerked his head sideways to Prince John, whose attention had perked up first at the mention of Robin Hood, and then even more so upon hearing his dear brother's name.

"What's that?" he demanded. "You made my – _King_ Richard" (the prince said his brother's name through clenched teeth) "look like a dolt? A ninny? A nincompoop?" he said, grinning for the first time. It was always a disconcerting experience for newcomers to court.

"Uhh . . ." Phillip looked helplessly over to his smarmy friend, who nodded encouragingly. "Why, yes! Yes, I did!"

"Bravo!" Prince John stood up, dropping his cup on the floor and clapping Phillip on the shoulder. "Let's get this man a drink!" He put his arm tightly around Phillip's neck. "I like you."

"Thank you, Your Lord! Um, I mean, My Royal Highness!" stammered the young man.

"Whatever. I'll be king someday, what's it matter?" Prince John bellowed a laugh. This was also disconcerting for Phillip. Or as he would have said, "dis- . . . dix- . . . a bit odd." Luckily, Prince John didn't notice his new acquaintance's perplexity. "Enough about that. I want you to tell me all about how you made Dickey look like a . . . well, you know." The prince roared with laughter at his own unspoken joke. Everybody but Phillip roared right back.

"Is Dickey your cat? I have a cat, too! Her name is Lactica," Phillip confided.

Prince John pulled in his chin, appraising the youth seriously for a moment. "What was your name again?"

"Sir- Sir Phillip of Dunghill."

Prince John sneered, or smiled, it was hard to tell. "Philly, my boy, I've decided something. I'm going to teach you how to live."

*arrow whooshing noise*

Location: Nottingham Castle (as if you wouldn't have figured that out)

"NO MORE DEATH PANELS! DOWN WITH VASEY CARE!" shouted a smattering of peasants gathered in the courtyard.

Lady Marian, hearing them as she walked by a window, shook her head, annoyed that some people had interpreted her plan to provide dental to peasants as a plot to kill poor people. Granted, the dentist did kill a lot of people, but that was hardly her fault. If only there were a proper medical school in Nottinghamshire . . . as things were, there were just a few basic courses at þe Olde Lernynge Annexe.

Sir Guy of Gisborne, not too absorbed in his castle duties to notice his lady's frustration (and cleavage), stopped as he walked by on his way to the stables. "Why don't you just let me cleave- I mean, knock their heads around a bit?" he inquired. "Quiet 'em down a bit."

Marian now turned her annoyed countenance upon Guy. "How on earth can we maintain democracy if we endeavor to suppress the dissent of the proletariat? Censorship of such viewpoints, however irrational they may be, merely leads to a precedence of tyranny." She rolled her eyes. "Duh."

"Right." Guy, having given up on understanding her words of wisdom, had returned to admiring her attributes with a broader appeal. "Boobs."

"Excuse me?" Marian raised an eyebrow, but a twinkle belied her stern demeanor.

Guy at first feigned sheepishness, but then his sheepish grin turned wolf. "I said . . ." he murmured gutturally, "boobs."

Marian did not blush as she once would have, but she was not so easily distracted. "Guy, the masses will never –"

"Wot she goin' on about now? The masses and . . . boobs?" Allan smirked as he approached. "I say we give 'em all those new sheep bladder implant whatsits," he said. "That oughtta keep 'em 'appy for a good long while."

Marian raised her other eyebrow at Allan of Bonchurch while keeping her other eyebrow raised at Guy. She was getting quite accomplished at this trick.

Allan raised his hands innocently. "'m I interruptin' somethin'?"

Marian sighed and turned her head toward the empty bedroom across the hall. _There was still a little time before that meeting with the orphans and widows . . ._

"No, I suppose not." She smiled.

"VASEY KILLED MY GRANDMA!" bawled a voice from the courtyard. To be fair, it was strictly the truth.

But Marian, Allan and Guy had already closed the door of the bedroom and heard nothing.

*arrow whoosh*

Location: A carriage on a road somewhere in Britain

A sleek, shiny black-and-white cat stuck out her rough pink tongue and licked the prince's nose. Finding this to be a procedure worth repeating, she did.

"Your cat," spoke Prince John, with more than a little annoyance, "does not seem to be showing us the deference befitting a future king."

Phillip, not knowing whom the prince meant by "us," looked around bewilderedly, seeing only the royal guard in front and in back of the carriage, which was rumbling roughly along at a steady pace. This made him remember that carriage rides made his bum hurt. This, in turn, reminded him that his mum had made him a very special seat cushion for such occasions. This made him forget to answer Prince John, which further perturbed the would-be monarch.

Lactica proceeded to bathe Prince John's nose.

"Sir Phillip," he said, side-eying the feline mistrustingly, "perhaps you ought to feed your . . . animal. It seems to be hungry."

Phillip pulled what appeared to be a large block of Swiss cheese, placed it under his rear end, and sat on it. A loud ripping noise emanated from it. Prince John looked faintly disgusted, not realizing that the cushion was to blame, and not Sir Phillip's digestive system.

"Oh, quite right! It's been at least twenty-three minutes since the last time she ate. Thank you ever so much for reminding me, my . . . your . . . Highness!" Phillip pulled out a wedge of Emmentaler from under his cloak, sniffed it approvingly, broke it in half, and gave a piece to Lactica, who at last turned her attention away from the princely proboscis and daintily attacked the cheese.

Phillip offered the other half to Prince John, who declined. "Not really in the mood for cheese right now, my boy," said the prince. He adjusted his own King Richard seat cushion (14.99₤ from Spencer's Gift Shoppe). "I'd much rather hear more about how you blew the wind up my brother's doublet, if you don't mind."

Phillip tittered nervously. "Oh, that? That . . . was nothing." He nibbled the Emmentaler.

"Nonsense! I want to hear about it." The prince's eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you loved me, you'd tell me."

Phillip gulped. Unfortunately, he did this with a large chunk of cheese in his mouth, and it lodged itself in his windpipe. The lucky result of this was that he couldn't answer Prince John's question due to impending asphyxiation. His mother had always taught him to look on the bright side of life, and his mother was never wrong.

Prince John winced at the loud wheezing which was coming from his new protégé. "Never mind, then, I shall hear it all from the Sheriff when we reach Nottingham."

Phillip's face turned red and his eyes bulged. Well, they might have if they hadn't already been that way from the choking. He thought how it would be rather funny if they got to Notshrimpham and the Sheriff knew nothing about ninja pirates or how Phillip had made the King look daft.

Lactica, seeing that her food-giver was in trouble, quickly jumped on his back and attempted to dislodge the cheese from his windpipe.

"Dear, me, you don't think it's going to rain, do you?" asked Prince John, looking apprehensively at the sky.

End of Chapter 1

_Will Phillip get the cheese out of his windpipe? Will Lactica invent the Heimlich maneuver for cats? Will Marian wear silly costumes? (Spoiler: yes.) Will Vasey's health care reform get repealed?_

_Find out in Chapter 2 of Weekend at Vasey's II!_


	2. Chapter 2

Weekend at Vasey's II, Chapter 2

_Author's note: d__ue to gross incompetence, the entire arrow whoosh caption crew has been fired and replaced by a highly-skilled team of jellyfish._

"Sir Guy! Sir Guy!" shouted a portly castle guard, running up the castle staircase that led to the administrative quarters. He was nearly out of breath, as there were at least fifteen stairs, and he was halfway up. "Have you . . . seen . . . Sir Guy?"

Another guard, who had been vigilantly resting his eyes while guarding an empty wall sconce, rubbed his eyes drowsily and replied, "Hoozzatt?"

"Sir Guy, have . . ." a gasp, "you seen . . ." then came another gasp. This heavy breathing was too much for his attention span. "Know what, I'm feelin' a bit peckish. Wanna go down to the kitchen and see if there's any strawberry jam and scones?"

"Oh, I say, that's a good idea," the other guard replied, perking up at this suggestion. "I love strawberry jam."

The two guards sauntered down the stairs together, their loosely girded swords slapping each other's bottoms in the process.

"What was that you was sayin'?"

"'Bout what?" asked Jimsie, still winded.

"I dunno. I thought you'd said somethin' about Sir Guy, is all. Is he still goin' on about 'guarding' and how we're supposed to be 'protecting' the castle, and all o' that jibber-jabber?" asked the other guard, Christopher.

"I don't think so. But I was supposed to tell him something . . . important, I think they said it was."

"Oh, well, that sounds . . . know what, I think I'll have blueberry jam instead of strawberry."

Jimsie gave his colleague a withering glance. _Blueberry, indeed_. "I bet Prince John don't like blueberry. Suppose we'll be findin' out soon enough."

"Oh, why's that?" asked Christopher, uninterested. He stepped out into the corridor of the lower level.

"Because he's on his way here. Or his body double who looks totally different is on his way here. Or maybe Prince John is on his way . . . somewhere that sounds like here. I can't remember. Probably not important . . . or _very_ important, something like that." Jimsie sighed, and his mouth watered. _Blueberry. What kind of simpleton eats blueberry jam when he can have strawberry instead? The very idea!_

It just so happened that Marvin was walking by at that moment. He was also on his way to the kitchen, not because he was also hungry for strawberry jam, but because he was actually doing his job. Upon overhearing the other "guards'" conversation, though, he wheeled around on them.

"Erm, what was that?" he asked.

"Oh, we were just sayin' that some strawberry jam would do really hit the spot right about now," answered Jimsie.

"Blueberry," corrected Christopher.

"I can't bloody believe you'd rather have blueberry than strawberry!" Jimsie shouted, losing his cool.

"Oh, good, because I thought for a moment you'd said that Prince John was on his way here," said Marvin, interrupting them.

"Oh, he is, I think, or was it his body double?" Jimsie answered, then turned his attention back to more important matters. "As I was sayin', straw-"

Marvin, not allowing himself to be sidetracked, even by such urgent philosophical discussions as this, pressed the issue. "And did he say when he was coming?"

Jimsie looked at him, clearly beginning to be annoyed by all these interruptions when there was strawberry jam to be had. "This afternoon, or was it this morning?"

"This morning's over," answered Marvin. "So it must be this afternoon."

"Right. Like I said, there's a magical quality to the strawberry jam that can't be . . ." his voice trailed off as he and Christopher argued their way to the kitchen.

"Right, then," said Marvin to himself, drawing a deep breath. "I suppose I'd better tell Sir Guy about this."

*tentacle slap*

Sherwood Forest, Prince John's carriage

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sire," said Phillip, squirming.

Prince John sighed exasperatedly. "Fine. But this is the last time – if you can't hold it in until we get to the castle, you're bloody well out of luck! If you ruin my surprise entrance – "

"No, my lord!" yelped Sir Phillip of Dunghill, fairly leaping out of the carriage and across the road, where he began to shimmy out of his Garanimal Grown-ups™ trousers.

Prince John quickly glanced into the sky, wondering wistfully if perhaps being blinded by the sun would not have been preferable to the sight of Sir Phillip's pink bottom and skinny chicken legs.

"Meow," meowed Lactica sympathetically.

Prince John gave the cat a distrustful, sideways glance, thereby causing himself to look again in the direction of Sir Phillip's backside. He quickly looked stared back into the sun, this time praying that the blinding would be swift.

As it turns out, though, the sun was awfully dark all of a sudden. This was likely because it was being blocked by a masked man (actually, one eye was masked, the other was covered up with a patch) wearing a ruffled white blouse, striped pants and a rather flamboyant feathered hat. He had climbed into Prince John's carriage and was now standing above that illustrious personage, having carefully angled himself as to achieve the maximum "wow" effect of the sun's rays silhouetting him.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Prince John did not cotton to this strange and unpermitted alighting into his personal carriage. In fact, he didn't care for it at all. His ginger eyebrows drew together in a most princely combination of outrage and terror.

"What is the meaning of this, you – you – poorly-dressed ruffian?" demanded the prince, wondering at that moment where all his guards were, not to mention the driver of his carriage.

"Poorly-dressed? I'll have you know my Master paid – " came a voice from behind them.

"Not NOW, Mu- uhh, Mustard!" hissed the mysterious person in the wagon.

"Excuse me, do you mean to tell me I'm being held up by a person called Mustard?" commanded the prince, even more indignantly than before. "This is not to be borne!"

"That's what your mum said. About you," said the half-masked man, cheekily. Then, seeing that he hadn't quite hit his mark, said, "When you were born, I mean."

"Sorry, was that meant to be an insult?" asked Prince John, confused.

"Yeah, you know. Your mum!" chuckled the bandit. "Um, I mean, not that she's not a nice lady, and all. So I've heard."

"You leave my mum out of this," seethed Prince John. "And perhaps then you could tell me just what the devil you're on about. Or you could just bugger off. That would be even better."

"My Lord!" squealed Sir Phillip, now behind the carriage. "I'm terribly sorry I can't help you, but my button got stuck, and then this horrid fellow with a hook for a hand took me prisoner, and – "

"Quiet, you!" said the other man, whom we shall assume is called Mustard.

"Oh, all right, then," acquiesced Phillip. "But please don't harm my kitty."

"Arrrggh, THAT'S ENOUGH!" shouted the half-masked man, taking back his control of the situation. He also remembered that he was holding a sword in his hand, and he pointed this at Prince John's neck. "Now, I think it's time you handed over all your money to me. For, like, the poor. And stuff."

"I beg your pardon? And I mean that in a facetious way, not as if I were actually begging. I don't beg," replied the prince.

"I'm robbin' you, don't you understand?" said the bandit.

"Haha, 'I'm Robin you,' good one, Master!" laughed the man we call Mustard.

"Shut up, Mu- -ustard!" snapped the mysterious bandit.

"I'm getting hungry," moaned Sir Phillip. Being terrified always made him hungry.

*polyp whip*

"MARIAAAAANNN!" shouted Guy, his voice causing a small family of crickets down in the dungeon to wonder just what the hell all that racket was about. "Marian, where are you?"

Marian called up from the courtyard where she was trying to reason with some protesters. "Guy, there's really no need to shout like that."

"Oh, yes, there bloody well is!"

"No, there's really not. I had speaking tubes installed in all the rooms of the castle, remember?"

No, Guy didn't remember, and even if he had, he wouldn't have used them at this moment. "Sod the speaking tubes, Marian, this is urgent!"

Marian didn't care for Guy's tone, especially since those speaking tubes had cost a pretty penny and had come out of her own inheritance. "I will have you know that –"

"PRINCE JOHN IS COMING," bellowed Guy, nearly deafening a guard who was walking by on his way to naptime.

The lady's mouth dropped open. "Wait, I thought you said Prince John was coming," answered Marian. "Can't you pick up the speaking tube? It's right next to you," she said, pointing it out to him.

"He is coming," Guy said, after fumbling with the speaking tube for three-and-a-half minutes.

"Oh." Marian's mind raced, thinking of what this might mean. Finally she spoke back, "I suppose I'd better change into something more presentable for state visits, then."

_Will Phillip's Garanimals make it out of his predicament in one easy-to-fasten piece? Will the identities of the very mysterious ruffians be revealed? Will Marian find something appropriate to wear?__ Find out next time in Weekend at Vasey's II!_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

[Author's note: the team of jellyfish dried out and had to be replaced by an adorably cheesy Bavarian count (no relation to Friedrich)]

*ve are now een zee castle*

"Oooooohhhh. Ohhh. Urrrrrgghhh. I'm soooo hungry," said a handsome, well-coifed young man with chiseled cheekbones. "Please, I – what's my line again?"

Allan covered his face with his hand and rolled his eyes. "It's 'please, please, I need food.'"

"Right." The ridiculously good-looking youth cleared his throat and began again. "Please, please, I need food," he stated, his chiseled cheeks never wrinkling.

Allan looked down at his black wooden clipboard, winced, then looked the young fellow in the eyes. "I'm just having a hard time believin' that you've been starvin' in the dungeon for six months, is all."

Mr. Handsome, or Jeff, as he was known to his friends, nodded, though his blue eyes did not seem to be registering much. "Uh-huh. But – what's my motivation?"

Allan's eyes widened momentarily as he looked back down at his clipboard. "Um, you're starving, you're, like, really, really hungry, okay? And you don't like it one bit."

"Oh, so I should play it as more of a tragic figure, huh? I get that," Jeff replied enthusiastically. Just give me a minute to get into character. He walked over into a corner and started shaking his arms, blowing out his cheeks, and generally making a fool of himself in front of a family of crickets, who were not at all impressed.

"NEXT!" shouted Allan unhopefully.

Guy was pacing the floor in Marian's bedchambers, and the lady herself was hidden behind a screen as she busily changed clothes.

"Yech, not this one!" Marian yelled frustratedly. A few seconds later a sparkly purple jumpsuit landed on Guy's head.

Guy plucked the scant piece of fabric off himself and set it on a plush stool. "Do you think he'll believe that Stacy is the Sheriff?"

Marian mumbled as she pulled a tight leather bodice over her head, "Well, that depends. Is Prince John anything like Sir Phillip of Dunghill?"

Guy sneered, remembering his former rival for Marian's affections. "I've yet to meet Prince John, but I've heard he's no fool. He might act like it sometimes, but I'm fairly certain he'd notice if, for example, the dog chewed someone's leg off at the dinner table and made off with it."

Marian shouted a curse as she flung her Bo Peep wig onto the bed. "Then we'll have to make sure Stacey says as little to him as possible. I fear the 'Evil Villain' lessons we've paid for have had practically no effect on him at all."

"Ye Olde Learnynge Annex has classes for that, too?"

"Oh, yes, it's one of their most popular. Aside from "How to Tell a Witch from a Duck 101" and "Faking Your Own Demise," of course."

"Did they at least offer a refund?"

"No, they – wait. YES!"

"Well, at least that's something," Guy said, picking up a roll of boob tape off the floor.

"No, not the refund. I mean, I filled out a form, but they – erm, that's not the important thing. I wanted to say, I've got an idea!" Marian's muffled voice was triumphant.

_The last time she said that, we wound up burying bits of Vasey in the garden_, Guy thought, sitting down on the Bo Peep wig in despair. _Then again, we did have lots of sex afte_r, he reminded himself, perking up a bit.

"At least I'll finally get to meet Prince John in person," Guy mused. "I hope he's more impressive than his brother . . ."

"You mean King Richard? When did you meet him?" Marian asked, popping her head out from behind the screen for a moment. Her head, incidentally, was topped by a teacup.

"Uhh . . . in the . . . at a party once. He – just kept going on and on about how many Saracens he'd killed. Quite a bore. You wouldn't like him." Guy began to sweat, hoping she wouldn't notice.

Marian narrowed her eyes suspiciously before withdrawing behind the screen. "Where was this party? And when?"

"Oh, just . . ." Guy gulped.

Mercifully, he was interrupted by pounding at the door.

"What is it?' Guy barked out. Whichever inept guard it was interrupting now, he was getting a raise.

"Sir? I've got someone here wants to see you."

Guy rolled his eyes. He spoke slowly, going to the door. "Is it . . . Prince John?"

"N-no, I . . . it's your mother."

Guy swung the door open forcefully now. "My mother is dead, you idiot!" he snarled.

"I do believe he meant to say _your sister_," said a dark-haired woman with big eyes and a luxurious purple velvet dress that actually looked like something a medieval woman might have worn.

Guy would probably have been less surprised if it had actually been his mother standing there.

Before he could react, Marian came out from behind the screen. She was wearing a dress made of net that was accentuated with tiny lobsters. The two women sized up each other and their respective choices of attire.

"Guy, you never told me you had a sister."

"Marian, Isabella. Isabella, Marian."

Isabella smiled with her lips, but Marian could feel her eyes mocking the tiny lobsters. "Charmed."

"I was just going to change, do excuse me a moment." Marian stepped back behind the curtain and began fumbling at the net.

"Well, aren't you going to show me around the place, dear brother?" Isabella said as she took the helpless Guy by the arm.

*und now ve are een zee keetchen!*

"And if you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?" Marvin asked, his eyebrow raised to the point of pain. He thought about what his mother used to stay about how his face might stay that way forever, and tried in vain to lower the eyebrow.

The young blonde woman across the table from him replied, "Well, I suppose if I had to change something, it would be the fact that I'm just too brave and intelligent for my own good sometimes."

Marvin sighed and jotted down the answer without comment. "And what would you say is your best attribute?"

"Oh, my imagination!" the young maid answered readily. "It's my best weapon."

"Erm, can you elaborate on that a bit?" Marvin asked, massaging his eyebrow. "Or give an example?"

She looked at him quizzically. "Isn't this the part where you fall in love with me and tell me I'm wonderful?" she asked.

"Sorry?" Marvin replied, now completely confused and a vaguely annoyed. _Honestly, who braids just their bangs?_

Kate said nothing, but looked at him expectantly.

Marvin sighed. "Alright, just one more question. How do you feel about Sir Guy of Gisbourne, and would you like to sexually harass or assault him in any way?"

Kate scoffed. "Hardly! Not when Robin Hood's totally my boyfriend."

Marvin's eyebrow began to relax. "Then . . . you promise if you get the job you won't try to have your way with Sir Guy?"

"Ha!" Kate snorted.

"Then you're hired," Marvin said hurriedly. "You can start right away."

"What was the job again?"

Marvin's eyebrow twitched. "Kitchen maid."

"Oh, well, I've never cooked before, but I'm sure I'll be spectacular at it."

"Fantastic." Marvin had already begun to walk out of the room.

Prince John was not amused. His guards and his driver were still unconscious, and Sir Phillip was more concerned about his stomach than about getting the hell out of the forest. It seemed he would have to take matters into his own hands.

The bandits had run off, taking a hefty bag of gold with them. Fortunately, Prince John always kept a bag of fool's gold on hand for just such a contingency. When the contents were emptied out, this would cause a tiny sachet to break open, releasing a cloud of vile stench that would mark the thieves for days.

And the world was full of fools.

Prince John nudged his driver off onto the ground. He fastidiously brushed off the seat with a silk kerchief, placed the King Richard Seat Cushion on the it, and finally sat down on it, taking care not to wrinkle his royal traveling attire.

"How much farther is it?" Sir Phillip asked, holding his stomach. "It's nearly time for my afternoon Brie!"

Lactica hopped onto the seat next to Prince John and nuzzled his sleeve.

Prince John looked down at her disapprovingly as he took the reins.


End file.
